11
The phone dragged me up from the deep-sea bottom of sleep. I came up gasping and flailing—for a second I thought the shrieking noise was a fire alarm, telling me Dina was locked in my flat with flames swelling. “Kennedy,” I said, when my mind found its footing.
“This could have nothing to do with your case, but you did say to ring if we picked up any other forums. You know what a private message is, right?”
Whatshisname, the computer tech: Kieran. “More or less,” I said. My bedroom was dark; it could have been any hour of the day or night. I rolled over and fumbled for the bedside lamp. The sudden flare of light jabbed me in the eyes.
“OK, on some boards, you can set your preferences so that, if you get a private message, a copy of it comes to your e-mail. Pat Spain—well, it could be Jennifer, but I’m assuming it’s Pat, you’ll see what I mean—he had that setting activated, on one board at least. Our software recovered a PM that came through a forum called Wildwatcher—that’s the ‘WW’ in the password file, gotta be, not World of Warcraft.” Kieran apparently worked to the soothing rhythm of cranked-up house music. My head was already pounding. “It’s from some dude called Martin, sent the thirteenth of June, and it says, quote, ‘Not looking to get in any arguments but seriously if it’s a mink I would def lay down poison esp if you have kids those bastards are vicious’—spelled wrong—‘would attack a kid no problem.’ Unquote. Any mink in the case?”
My alarm clock said ten past ten. Assuming it was still Thursday morning, I had been asleep for less than three hours. “Have you checked out this Wildwatcher site?”
“No, I decided to get a pedicure instead. Yeah, I’ve checked it out. It’s a site where people can talk about wild animals they’ve spotted—I mean, not that wild, it’s a UK-based site so we’re mostly talking, like, urban foxes?—or ask what’s that darling little brown birdie nesting in their wisteria. So I ran a search for ‘mink,’ right, and it turned up a thread started by a user called Pat-the-lad on the morning of June twelfth. He was a new user; looks like he registered specifically to post this. Want me to read it to you?”
“I’m in the middle of something,” I said. My eyes felt like someone had rubbed sand into them; so did my mouth. “Can you e-mail me the link?”
“No problemo. What do you want me to do with Wildwatcher? Check it out fast, or in depth?”
“Fast. If no one gave Pat-the-lad any hassle, you can probably move on, for now anyway. That family didn’t get killed over a mink.”
“Sounds good to me. See you around, Kemosabe.” In the second before Kieran hung up, I heard him turn up his music to a volume that could pulverize bone.
I took a fast shower, turning the water colder and colder till my eyes were focusing again. My face in the mirror irritated me: I looked grim and intent, like a man with his eyes on the prize, not a man whose prize was safe and sound in his display cabinet. I got my laptop, a pint glass of water and a few pieces of fruit—Dina had taken a bite out of a pear, changed her mind and put it back in the fridge—and sat on the sofa to check out Wildwatcher.
Pat-the-lad had registered at 9:23 A.M. on June 12, and started his thread at 9:35. It was the first time I had heard his voice. He came across as a good guy: down-to-earth, straight to the point, knew how to lay out the facts. Hi guys, got a question. Living on the east coast of Ireland, right by the sea if that makes a difference. Last few weeks been hearing weird noises in the attic. Running, lots of scratching, something hard rolling about, sound I can only describe as tapping/ticking. Went up there but no sign of any animal. There’s a slight smell, hard to describe, kind of smoky/musky, but could be just something to do w the house (?pipes overheating?). Found one hole under eaves leading outside but only about 5 inches by 3. Noises sound like something bigger than that. Checked the garden, no sign of a den, no sign of any holes where something could have dug under the wall (5 feet high). Any ideas what it could be/suggestions what to do about it? Got young kids so if it could be dangerous need to know. Thanks.
The Wildwatcher board wasn’t a hotbed of action, but Pat’s thread had got noticed: over a hundred replies. The first few told him he had rats or possibly squirrels and he should call an exterminator. He came back a couple of hours later to answer: Thanks guys think its just 1 animal, never hear noises in more than 1 place at a time. Don’t think its a rat or a squirrel—thought that at first but put down mousetrap w big lump of peanut butter, no go, plenty of action that nite but trap not touched in the morn. So something that doesn’t eat peanut butter!
Someone asked what time of day the animal was most active. That evening Pat posted: At first only heard it at night after we went to bed, but could be because I wasn’t listening for it during the day. Started paying attention about a week ago and its all times of day/night, no pattern. Last 3 days noticed a real uptick in noise when my wife is cooking, specially meat—thing goes mental. Sort of creepy to be honest w you. Tonight she was making dinner (beef casserole) + I was w the kids in my sons room which is over kitchen. Thing was scrabbling + banging like trying to get through ceiling. Right above my sons bed so am a bit worried. Any more ideas?
People were starting to get interested. They thought it was a stoat, a mink, a marten; they posted photos, slim sinuous animals, mouths wide to show delicate, wicked teeth. People suggested that Pat put down flour in the attic to get the animal’s paw prints, take pictures of those and its scat and post them on the board. Then someone wanted to know what the big deal was: Why r u even here??? Just get rat poison put it in the attic n bobs ur uncle. Or r u 1 of those bleedin hearts that dont beleive in killing vermin?? If u r then u deserve wat u get.
Everyone forgot all about Pat’s attic and started yelling at each other about animal rights. It got heated—everyone called everyone else a murderer—but when Pat came back the next day, he kept a level head and stayed well away from the flames. Rather not go for poison except as total last resort. There are gaps in attic floor leading down into space (?8 inches deep?) between beams + ceiling of rooms below. Have had a look in w torch + couldn’t see anything dodgy but don’t want it crawling in there and dying, or it’ll stink the place out + I’ll have to take up attic floor to get it. Same reason why I didn’t just board up hole under eaves, don’t want to trap it inside by mistake. Haven’t seen any scat but will keep a lookout + take advice on prints.
Nobody paid any attention to him—someone had, inevitably, compared someone to Hitler. Later that day, the admin locked the thread. Pat-the-lad never posted again.
This was obviously where the cameras and the holes in the walls came in, somehow, but they still didn’t quite add up. I couldn’t picture that level-headed guy chasing a stoat around his house with a lump hammer like something out of Caddyshack, but neither could I picture him sitting back and watching on a baby monitor while something gnawed chunks out of his walls, especially with his kids just a few feet away.
Either way, this should have meant we could leave the monitors and the holes behind. Like I had told Kieran, a mink hadn’t convinced Conor Brennan to commit mass murder; the problem belonged to Jenny or to her estate agent, not to us. But I had given Richie my word: we were going to investigate Pat Spain, and anything odd in his life needed explaining. I told myself there was plenty of silver lining—the more loose ends we tied up, the fewer chances for the defense to create confusion in court.
I made myself tea and cereal—the thought of Conor eating his jail breakfast gave me a hard-edged thump of grim pleasure—and took my time rereading the thread. I know Murder Ds who go searching for mementoes like that, for any thread-fine echo of the victim’s voice, any watery reflection of his living face. They want him to come alive for them. I don’t. Those torn scraps won’t help me solve the case, and I’ve got no time for the cheap pathos of it, the easy, excruciating poignancy of watching someone meander happily towards the cliff edge. I let the dead stay dead.
Pat was different. Conor Brennan had tried so hard to deface him, weld a killer’s mask onto his wrecked flesh for all eternity. Catching a glimpse of Pat’s own face felt like a blow on the side of the angels.
I left a message on Larry’s phone, asking him to get his outdoorsy man to check out the Wildwatcher thread, head down to Brianstown ASAP and see what he thought of the wildlife possibilities. Then I e-mailed Kieran back. Thanks for that. After that reception, looks like Pat Spain took his wildlife issues to some other site. We need to find out where. Keep me updated.